


Dawning Hope (A Steelponcho Dawning, #2)

by DistantStorm



Series: The Dawning 'Verse [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Addressing the Ikora + Zavala hostilities, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Smut, Multi, Post-Destiny 2: Forsaken DLC, The Dawning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 03:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: In which Ikora and Zavala are not speaking following Cayde’s death, Hawthorne has to take matters into her own hands, Eva does not want to return to the Tower, and things go to hell real fast. The Dawning is about togetherness. About what they fight for, and not feeling so sad and alone. They will all get the message, whether they like it or not.Or: A story about a lot of well-meaning people who have a plan, but their own motives, and thus the plan goes to hell.





	Dawning Hope (A Steelponcho Dawning, #2)

The lanterns cast a warm glow on the ballroom tucked around winter gardens carefully cultivated especially for this event. The crystalline chandeliers are dimly lit for ambiance. The mass of high profile individuals - both guardian, militia, and civilians - chatter in a dull roar. The entirety of it creates an inviting atmosphere.

A waiter passes by in a stark black tuxedo, removing an empty champagne flute to replace it with a new one. Like its predecessor, the little glass is full of clear, sparkling liquid. The woman beside it nods her thanks, serious eyes made up with dark kohl and shadow. She swivels her head to look back down at the proceedings.

Amanda takes her seat at the head table overlooking the dance floor and the fifty tables that hug it's edges. Zavala joins her, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek, and, judging by her blush, to compliment Amanda on the beautiful sky blue dress she's chosen for the occasion. Ikora joins them last, her face twisted in a frown as she sits on the other side of the Titan. Neither of them speak to each other. Amanda looks up, just barely raising a glass of what's actually champagne and not sparkling water, finding her eyes and holding them with a charged gaze of her own.

Hawthorne nods. Amanda winks back. They both take a sip of their respective drinks and go to work.

**The Tower, The Last Safe City, Earth: Suraya Hawthorne’s Apartment. Four months earlier**

The box lands as gently as it can when she transmats it onto the kitchen counter. Her metallic-edged voice chimes, “I'm really, really sorry.”

“It isn't your fault,” Hawthorne regards the Ghost with eyes that aren't nearly as red rimmed or cloudy as they had been the night before when she had dropped by to check in. “He's just being stupid.”

“He's getting it from all sides,” The Ghost admits in her child-like tone, her white shell twitching in a sad shrug. “But that doesn't mean you shouldn't fight him on it. You're the only one who knows all the stress he's under. Or, at least, most of it. You know his-”

“Duty.” The word is said with a clipped tone.

_“-heart.”_

“Sometimes, they can't be the same,” Hawthorne replies.

The Ghost swivels side to side to show her disagreement, nudges her fins against the woman's cheeks in a rare show of affection, and blinks away in motes of Light.

In light of recent developments, Zavala has decided their relationship makes him biased. Distracted. He's worried about remaining an impartial, yet understanding, strong, yet empathetic leader. So he says. Or, in Suraya's opinion, Ikora is being a self-destructive cunt and blowing up every relationship around her with her grief, so Zavala's going to shoot himself in the thigh and watch it bleed. Everyone in the Tower, in the two weeks since Cayde's remains were brought back from the Prison of Elders, has heard Ikora's opinions of the Commander. Everyone knows all about how she feels.

Everyone has watched Zavala withdraw into himself, betrayed by Ikora's feelings, betrayed by their steadfast, loyal Guardian -  _the_  Guardian, for Light's sake - culling Scorned Barons on a quest for revenge. No one has noticed whom has been taking their dead comrade's tasks in strike rota to keep them on track, or who has been meeting with forlorn Kinderguardian Hunters when their seniors are out fighting the good fight.

That's fine. Let Zavala destroy their relationship in hopes of rebuilding that bridge with Ikora. May they reforge their relationship in grief, she thinks darkly, because like hell that's going to fucking work.

She's always been a survivor, and that doesn't stop because of some stupid breakup. What's that thing Amanda's been saying? She barely remembers, she'd been more concerned with keeping up with the Shipwright's pace on the tequila last night than listening to her wax poetic about loss. What was it? 'Forward momentum?’ Sure. That.

**Peregrine District, The Last City, Earth: Consensus Gathering Hall: 1800 Hours**

Amanda's elbow digs into the Commander's ribs. It's a sharp jab that almost makes him cough in surprise. His eyes flicker to her and she's waiting, seaglass eyes ready for his argument when she gestures around him to the Warlock Vanguard.

His gaze shifts immediately to that 'stern dad’ look he always has when she meddles in something he does not believe she belongs in. “Amanda,” He cautions in a low voice. “Do not-”

She rolls her eyes. “Would it kill you to try?”

Pained is the only word to describe his expression. He looks like she's actually socked him in the gut. “No, but she does not-”

“There’re at least four hundred people here, watchin’ your e’ry move. If ya don't talk to her,” Amanda examines her nearly empty glass of bubbly before throwing it back like it's a shot, “People’re gonna talk more about that than they will about anythin’ that’d happen if y’all do actually fight.” She shrugs. “It's the Dawnin’, Zavala. Ya gonna pretend like she ain't even there?”

Zavala sighs and turns to regard Ikora. She stares straight ahead, eyes appraising her surroundings cold as she's ever seen. It's clearly a dead end. A brick wall, really.

He looks back at Amanda, who waves as friendly-like as he's ever seen at Arach Jalal. When he begins to approach, the Shipwright glares at Zavala with her fiercest 'I will make your life miserable if you don't talk to her’ glare before breaking out the most saccharine of smiles for the Dead Orbit leader and engaging him in conversation. A few pointed glances tell him she's not going to leave her seat and is absolutely waiting for him to speak to his colleague. His friend.

Well, they were friends, once.

The Commander resists the urge to put his head in his hands. A whole party full of people and he could not possibly feel more alone.

-/

“You're doing the Traveler's work, dear,” Eva Levante says, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Here you are, orchestrating this whole event just to make him-”

“I'm not doing this for him,” Hawthorne asserts, though her words have no bite. “I'm doing it for the City. It's tradition.”

“I am sure you are.” The elder woman pats the younger woman's hand gently with her wrinkled one.  “But you cannot fool this old woman into thinking you've tricked yourself out of your feelings for him.”

Eva smiles at the conflicted look on Hawthorne's face. Naturally, she is a beautiful woman. Not for her womanly charms, though. For the expressiveness in her face when no one is looking, for the way her eyes light up, and for the way she moves without thinking to rush headlong into the fray. Hawthorne is agile and strong in the ways that unassuming woman often are. Paired with her mind - her heart, well, old Eva knows exactly why the Commander fell for her.

But here, in this theatre, her domain, Suraya Hawthorne is truly radiant. She'd had trouble sitting through the makeup artist Eva had arranged to paint her eyes and stain her cheeks around her tattoos, and pinning up her hair had been a challenge all its own. And yet, when Eva revealed her masterpiece - the first item she'd designed since the Red War - the younger woman had sucked it all up and endured. The results, Eva thought, were rather remarkable.

She wants, very much, to see that look in her dear friend's eyes, hopes to one day hear the sound of his laughter in the Tower once more. Right now though, in this moment, Eva cannot wait to see the look on his face.

If anyone can possibly pull this off, make the two stubborn immortals at least attempt to bridge the gap between them, it's Suraya.

“I'll tell you what, Eva,” Hawthorne replies after a moment. Unlike her scouts, she does not call Eva 'Abuela.’ Suraya has never, no matter how close Devrim became with older woman. It makes it easier now. “I wish it were that easy.”

Eva laughs, pushing up carefully on her toes to whisper into the Clan Steward’s ear. She whispers thickly, “What is right is never easy, dear. But I think you know that, most of all.”


End file.
